For most of my life, I carried around a quiet, embarrassing belief: I thought I was a “bad Jew.”

I didn’t say it out loud, of course, but it lived under my skin. I didn’t always know the prayers. I mixed up melodies. I questioned things I felt like everyone else understood. I compared myself constantly to the teens who grew up in day school, who knew every blessing by heart, who seemed to carry their Judaism with an ease I envied.

And because I felt different, I convinced myself I didn’t belong.

This past summer, I went to International Kallah, and everything I thought I knew about myself and my Judaism shifted. Kallah was the first place where I didn’t feel silently judged before I even opened my mouth. It was a space where every single person showed up with their own questions, their own insecurities, their own stories, and their own way of practicing their faith. Nobody tried to fit into a single mold. Nobody acted like there was only one “right” way to be Jewish. Instead, the message was simple and freeing:

There is no such thing as a “bad Jew.” And for the first time, I believed it.

The people I met at Kallah weren’t perfect Jews; they were growing Jews. Some kept strict traditions, some blended practices, and some were just beginning to explore their Judaism. Yet every person I met inspired me in a different way. They practiced Judaism with honesty, creativity, and joy. Being surrounded by people who were authentic with their faith made it easier for me to be authentic with mine.

The Jewish educators at Kallah weren’t just teachers to me—they became my parental figures for those three weeks. They sat with me during chofesh, never rushing, never judging, just listening. We’d talk about everything: belief, doubt, mitzvot, halacha, history, spirituality. They let me dissect Judaism piece by piece and helped me rebuild it into something that felt true to me. They taught me that Judaism isn’t a test—it’s a relationship. And relationships aren’t meant to look the same for everyone. They helped me find my Judaism not by giving me answers but by giving me space.

Kallah is the kind of place where you can show up unsure, confused, or disconnected and still feel completely held. Everyone was so warm, so friendly, so genuinely accepting that I stopped worrying about doing anything “wrong.” I didn’t feel like an outsider, I felt like I was finally stepping inside something I had always wanted but never felt worthy of. Being in that environment, one where questions were celebrated and individuality was embraced, allowed me to explore my Jewish identity with a kindness I had never offered myself before.

Somewhere between late-night talks on the dorm six porch, Shabbat songs under the stars, and limmuds that made me rethink everything (shoutout Monster Hunters and “Why Do I Care?”), something inside me softened. I began to feel a closeness to Hashem I had never experienced. Not because I learned more Hebrew or did more rituals, but because I finally felt connected. I didn’t find Hashem in a prayerbook, I found him in the feeling of belonging, in the people who held space for me, and in the parts of Judaism that started to feel alive again.

I left Kallah without the fear and shame I carried there. I left knowing that Judaism isn’t about perfection, it’s about intention, connection, and authenticity. It’s about finding what resonates in your soul and letting it guide you. Kallah didn’t just help me embrace my Judaism. It helped me find the courage to believe I deserved to.

And I think that’s why Kallah is magical. Not because of the lights of the infamous Perlman tree, or the song sessions, or the spirit circles (while they are of course magical), Kallah is magical because it shows you that you’re not alone in your questions, your doubts, or your journey. International Kallah teaches you that your Judaism isn’t something you earn. It’s something you already hold inside you, and all that’s left to do is embrace it.